The Broken Window

Malloy? Rhyme laughed to himself. Though Sellitto had been keeping the captain updated, as instructed, he apparently couldn’t shake his nature as an investigator and was gathering as much information as he could-maybe intending to offer suggestions. Rhyme would have to call and tell him about the trap and that the bait files contained nothing helpful.

The tech said, “I assumed it was okay for them to look it over, so I didn’t call you.”

“It’s fine.” Rhyme disconnected. He stared at the evidence boards for a long time. “Lon, I’ve got an idea.”

“What?” Sellitto asked.

“Our boy’s always one step ahead of us. We’ve been going about this like he’s any other perp. But he’s not.”

The man who knows everything…

“I want to try something a little different. I want some help.”

“From who?”

“Downtown.”

“Big area. Where exactly?”

“Malloy. And somebody at City Hall.”

“City Hall? The fuck for? Why do you think they’ll even take your phone call?”

“Because they have to.”

“That’s a reason?”

“You’ve gotta convince them, Lon. We need an edge on this guy. But you can do it.”

“Do what exactly?”

“I think we need an expert.”

“What kind?”

“Computer expert.”

“We’ve got Rodney.”

“He’s not exactly what I have in mind.”

The man had been knifed to death.

Efficiently, yes, but also gratuitously, stabbed in the chest and then viciously slashed-in anger, Sachs assessed. This was another side to 522. She’d seen injuries like these at other scenes; the energetic and ill-aimed cuts suggested that the killer was losing control.

That was good for the investigators; emotional criminals are also careless criminals. They’re more public and they leave more evidence than perps who exercise self-control. But, as Amelia Sachs had learned from her days on the street, the downside is that they’re much more dangerous. People as crazed and dangerous as 522 drew no distinction among their intended victims, innocent bystanders and the police.

Any threat-any inconvenience-had to be dealt with instantly and fully. And to hell with logic.

In the harsh halogen lamps set up by the crime-scene team, bathing the graveyard in unreal light, Sachs looked over the victim, on his back, feet splayed where they’d danced outward in his death throes. A huge comma of blood leading away from the corpse stained the asphalt sidewalk in Forest Hills Memorial Gardens and a fringe of grass beyond.

None of the canvassers could find any witnesses, and Miguel Abrera, the SSD janitor, couldn’t add anything. He was badly shaken both because he’d been a potential target of the killer and because his friend had died; he’d gotten to know the groundskeeper in his frequent visits to the graves of his wife and child. That night he’d had a vague feeling that someone had followed him from the subway and he’d even stopped and glanced into a bar window to look for reflections of a mugger tailing him. But the trick hadn’t worked-he’d seen no one-and he’d continued on to the cemetery.

Now, in her white overalls, Sachs directed two crime-scene officers from the main CS operation in Queens to photograph and video everything. She processed the body and began to walk the grid. She was especially diligent. This was an important scene. The killing had happened fast and violently-the groundskeeper had obviously surprised 522-and they had grappled, which meant more chances to find some evidence here that would lead to more information about the killer and his residence or place of work.

Sachs began on the grid-walking over the scene foot by foot in one direction and then turning perpendicular and searching the same area again.

Halfway through she stopped abruptly.

A noise.

She was sure it was the sound of metal against metal. A gun chambering a round? A knife opening?

She looked around quickly but saw only the dusk-blanketed cemetery. Amelia Sachs didn’t believe in ghosts, and normally found resting grounds like this peaceful, even comforting. But now her teeth were clenched, her palms sweating in the latex gloves.

She’d just turned back to the body when she gasped, seeing a flash of light nearby.

Was it a streetlight through those bushes?

Or 522 moving closer, a knife in his hand?

Uncontrolled…

And she couldn’t help but think he’d already tried once to kill her-the setup near DeLeon Williams’s house with the federal agent-and failed. Maybe he was determined to finish what he’d started.

She returned to her task. But as she was nearly finished collecting evidence, she shivered. Movement again-this time on the far side of the lights, but still within the cemetery, which had been closed by patrol officers. She squinted through the glare. Had it been the breeze jostling a tree? An animal?

Her father, a lifer of a cop and a generous source of street wisdom, once told her, “Forget the dead bodies, Amie, they’re not going to hurt you. Worry about the ones who made’em dead.”

Echoing Rhyme’s admonition to “search carefully, but watch your back.”